Steady hands (just take the wheel)
by Philyra
Summary: AU. World-famous mystery novelist Killian Jones has just killed off his main character and is looking for a muse. Enter Detective Emma Swan. (Or, when OUAT meets Castle.)
1. Writer, meet Muse

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas rattling in my head!

* * *

The first time Emma Swan properly meets Killian Jones she has to fight to keep from blushing and stammering because this is the man she's waited hours in line for just so she can get his signature on the cover of _Storm Rising_. His books line the shelves in her cramped little apartment, dog-eared and the pages warped from too much time spent reading in the bath. The words on those pages have entertained her during the good times and been her saving grace during the bad.

But she can't be sentimental right now and if there's anything Emma's good at, it's tamping down on her feelings and focusing on the job at hand with an objective eye. "Killian Jones? Detective Emma Swan, NYPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a series of murders that may be connected with your novels."

Twenty-four hours later, she's absolutely torn between disillusionment at having her image of him shattered because Killian Jones is a cocky, womanizing, overgrown man-child. On the other hand, he's intelligent, cognizant of law enforcement procedure, and incredibly perceptive.

Uncomfortably so.

"There's always a story, Detective Swan," he tells her earnestly over piles and piles of fan letters. His accent, lilting and Irish, flows over vowels and consonants in the most appealing way. "Take yours, for example."

"Mine?" Emma scoffs, reaching for her coffee and frowning to discover that it had gone cold, though maybe that was a good thing. This was bottom of the pot stuff and could absolutely qualify for toxic waste at this stage.

"Yes, yours. You're smart and beautiful and have amazing instincts. You could have been anything – a lawyer, a businesswoman, a politician – and risen to the very top, because that's the kind of person you are. And yet here you are." He tilts his head to the side, eyes a shade of blue that's absolutely unreal, sharp and focused as he considers her. "Something happened to you, something life-changing. Something that got you onto the straight and narrow."

Emma slowly and deliberately sets down the letter she's holding. "What makes you think I wasn't always _on_ the straight and narrow?"

Some of the excitement fades from his eyes as he mirrors her stance and leans slightly over the table. "It's something in your eyes, Detective. You've seen too much, and most of it before you ever joined the force. Tell me, love…who was it that left you?"

The question hits hard and true. She has to fight to keep from snarling at him and instead settles for the kind of glare that has her suspects peeing in their pants in the interrogation room. She feels some satisfaction in making him flinch. "You don't know me."

"No," and there's something regretful in his tone – for what? Pushing her? She doesn't want to know. "But you're something of an open book, Detective. And trust me when I say that there is definitely a story here."

She looks down at the letter she just put down. "I think I just found it."

* * *

In hindsight, Emma knows that the case fell into place a little too neatly. Part of it is because she wanted to shut Jones and his ridiculous need for a story _down _(he was so annoying and when she said stay in the car she damn well meant for him to _stay in the car_). For once she just wants life to be easy, but she's never chosen the easy life and damned if she's going to start now.

Okay, so he was right and there was a story there (brother kills sister over inheritance, frames one of her patients and kills two others just to throw police off the scent). And he had been the one to initially apprehend the murderer.

Still, she was _so_ glad that it was over.

"I don't mean to upset you, Detective Swan, but we make quite the team," Jones remarks as he steps up behind her.

Emma shoots a glance at him over her shoulder before turning around, a smile playing around the corner of her lips in spite of herself. Her favorite author might have fallen off his pedestal a bit, but hey, she could still say that she'd worked with _the _Killian Jones.

"Yes, well, it's over now. Case closed."

Jones steps into her space, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It doesn't have to be over, you know. Have dinner with me. We could…debrief each other."

Gods, is he really that cheesy? She laughs a little bit and doesn't miss the way he brightens at the sound. "I'm not going to be one of your conquests, Jones."

He does this thing where he almost sways in place, closing the space between them just a little more. "It wouldn't have to be that way, love. I could be one of yours."

"Please." Feeling playful (after all, she was never going to see him again, right?), she reaches up to whisper in his ear. "You couldn't handle it."

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away. She misses the way that his expression shifts from dazed to admiring to positively gleeful.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Captain Dulais Tracy stands, smiling wryly as Emma steps in. "Good work on the Killian Jones case, Detective. You have a fan."

"Sir?"

The captain looks far too amused for her own good. "It seems you've got his muse alive and kicking now. He's looking to write a new hero…or rather, heroine. A beautiful, street-wise detective."

A feeling of foreboding sweeps over her. "Sir, _no. _Jones is a flippant little _twit _who-"

Captain Tracy holds up a hand. "Be that as it may, I'm afraid it's out of my hands, Detective. This is a personal request from the mayor."

"So, Detective Swan," a familiar, detestable voice pipes up from the doorway. "When do we begin?"

* * *

"I still need to think of a name for your alter ego." Jones reclines back in the seat beside her desk.

"I'm not here to help you brainstorm," she snaps.

"It's too bad I couldn't use your real name," he continues. "Detective Emma Swan. My god, it's like you're a character in a book already. A fairy tale."

Emma rolls her eyes so hard she nearly sprains them. She has no room in her life for fairy tales. Maybe she dreamed of princes and princess and happily-ever-after once – but not anymore. "I'm not a character in a fairy tale, Jones. I'm a real person."

"Real, yes. Ordinary, no." He has his chin propped up in his hand and Emma tries not to shift under the weight of that focused gaze. He's been working with her for about two weeks now and he's tried her patience more than anyone else, but there are times like this, when he dissects her like she's one of his mysteries, that she's most unnerved.

Emma reaches for her coffee and makes her usual face at the taste, not noticing the way that his gaze flitters from her to the mug. "Honestly, Jones," she begins as she puts it away. She can do without the caffeine fix for now. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Other people to creep on?"

"I like it here," he says cheerfully.

"Ugh." She gets back to her paperwork. David and Leroy are out canvassing the latest victim's neighborhood and there's no way that she's subjecting her colleagues to Jones without her, not yet. Leroy's leash is even shorter than hers, and while David's always been the most easygoing of the three of them, she knows that he's got his eye on Jones.

Speaking of – "Snow!" he cries, sitting bolt upright.

"Excuse me?"

He flashes her a sheepish grin, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Nothing."

"Weirdo."

The next morning, he hands her a coffee cup from the place around the corner from the precinct that she treats herself to when she can't stand the coffee inside anymore. It's done exactly the way she likes, hot and strong, with just a dash of milk and two spoons of sugar. Emma's not sure she wants to know how he's figured it out, but it's a cold morning and a nice gesture.

So she thanks him and hides a smile at how pleased he is over that small thing.

* * *

Gwen Snow. He's named the character _Gwen Snow._

Emma's not sure whether she should laugh or cry. It's…it's just kind of tacky and yeah, so was Derrick Storm but Derrick Storm wasn't based on her, now was he?

"Detective Snow? What, is she chasing down criminals north of the Wall?" Leroy asks, unimpressed.

"It's great!" Jones protests, deflating slightly at the three pairs of eyes staring him down. "Detective Gwen Snow – it just rolls off the tongue. The first novel will be titled _Snow Falls_."

"Seriously, is she Ned Stark's bastard?"

"George Martin does _not _have a monopoly on the surname Snow!" Jones says, affronted. Emma catches David's eye and the two of them have to fight to keep from bursting into laughter. They make a great team, the three of them. Leroy's the best at busting balls, David's got the kind of golden earnestness that has people falling all over themselves to confess, and Emma-

Well, Emma's the heavy-hitter.

She decides to take pity on Jones, who looks like he's opened a pile of Christmas presents only to discover they're all filled with coal. "It's fine, Jones. Knowing you, she could have ended up with a stripper name."

"_Exactly_ – wait, what?"

"Nice weather theme you've got going on with your characters," she continues casually. Please god let it just be the one because the thought of him hanging around to write more than one book makes her want to …well, best not say.

Jones looks like he's about to comment but decides against it. Wise man. "Well, now that you mention titles, there's going to be a publicity party announcing the title and the new character at the Library Bar. You're all invited, of course, and I would be most obliged if the lovely Detective Swan here came as my date."

Emma wonders if she heard him right. "Excuse me?"

Those eyes of his really need to stop doing that twinkling thing. "Well, it would make sense, wouldn't it?" he asks innocently. "You are, after all, the real-life Gwen Snow." He winks. "Wear something short."

"Hey buddy," Leroy growls. "We know how to make you disappear, if you catch my drift."

"It's okay Leroy," Emma says, turning over the possibilities. She hates being the center of attention, but she has no doubt that the mayor, the commissioner, and Captain Tracy will be on her to make good publicity for the NYPD. "Jones is just being Jones. What time are you picking me up?"

He looks absolutely thrown. Emma hides a smirk because really, she's just getting started. He wants short? He'll get it.

The expression on Jones' face when she opens her apartment door wearing her favorite little red dress and not so favorite sky-high black heels is more than worth a night of false smiles and schmoozing.

(Jones, of course, recovers quickly and drops innuendos the entire night but she has sharp elbows and knows how to use them.)

* * *

Emma knows that Killian has been married before. His wife is lovingly mentioned in the dedications of the first, second, third, and fourth Derrick Storm books. Now that she's been working for him for a while, she notices the tattoo on his wrist that he never talks about. She knows that Milah Jones died – an aneurysm? – and that the fifth, sixth, and seventh Derrick Storm novels were the darkest of the series.

But this? "You have a _son_?"

Something dark and sad crosses his face ever so briefly as he tracks the thirteen-year-old across the room where he's getting the grand tour from David and Leroy. "Adopted, technically. It's a long story." He rubs the back of his neck. "You don't mind, do you? It's just for a little while, and then he'll probably go back to the penthouse to do his homework."

It's the unexpected bashfulness that does Emma in, just a little bit. "No, of course not. He's…delightful."

Liam Jones, Jr. is as different from Jones as night is from day. Sure, he's got the same insatiable curiosity and the same blue eyes, but his hair is a much lighter brown and determinedly curly. He's quiet and serious and sensitive. Despite the differences, though, it's clear that the two Jones men absolutely adore one another.

Case in point: "All right kid, Gran's waiting for you at home. Have you done your homework?"

"Already done."

"Oh good." Jones grins, affection clear on his face as he gazes down at his son. "Why don't you finish mine?"

Liam considers it. "That depends. How much are you going to pay me?"

Jones roars with laughter. "I've taught you well, lad. Let me grab my coat and I'll walk you to the metro stop."

Liam waits until he's well away before he turns to Emma. She braces herself because this kid is _Jones' _and wow that's really difficult to process. "Dad really likes working with you, Detective Swan," he says solemnly.

"He's certainly…interesting to work with," Emma says diplomatically, a smile threatening at the corners of her mouth.

He shoots her a look that is all too knowing and somewhat out of place on a kid that young. "I know how he is, Detective. But he's the best. Please take care of him for me when you're working."

She understands the gravity of the request and the fear behind it. The love Liam has for Jones makes feelings old and forgotten flutter inside her, tightening her chest. "Don't worry, kid. He's in good hands."

* * *

Gran, as it turns out, is Isabel Lucas, the owner of Granny's Diner. Granny's, as it's affectionately called, is a New York City institution and a place where New York's finest have been known to end up after a long shift because the coffee's good and hot and always free for them. She's also Jones' next-door neighbor and his go-to babysitter – either Granny, or her granddaughter Ruby, who is poised to take over Granny's.

Liam tells her all of this as he perches beside her on a stool while Jones bustles around the kitchen. He drops by the precinct every once in a while if he knows that Jones is there and they're not too busy. And somehow, he wheedled Emma into coming over for dinner.

"So Granny just adopted you?" Emma asks.

"More or less," Jones says, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he stirs béchamel sauce on the stove. "Liam was but a lad when we moved in and I was something of a helpless bachelor-"

"You're _still _a helpless bachelor," someone sniffs behind Emma, and she almost falls off her stool.

"Gran!" Liam exclaims, jumping off his stool.

Jones looks wounded. "I'm hardly helpless, Gran!" he protests. "See, I'm cooking!" He's only just put the lasagna noodles into the pot of boiling water and is back to attending the béchamel.

"Burning is more like it," the older woman scoffs as she releases Liam from her embrace and eyes Emma. "Detective Swan, you seem like the sensible type so I know you'll keep him in line. Though heaven knows why you decided to work with him in the first place. The man's impossible." Granny's behind the counter with Jones before Emma can even reply, nudging him aside as she peers into the pot of sauce bubbling away on the stove.

Liam grins at Emma as he climbs back into his stool. "Granny doesn't cook for us all that often, you know. Dad's a really good cook," he confides. "He says he likes it because it clears his head. And his lasagna's the best."

Emma can't help but smile back at him. She's not good with kids (and really, _really _doesn't dwell on the reasons why) – David's the one who's usually saddled with them during cases. Liam's different though. Maybe it's because he's older, or something of an old soul, but he's easy to talk to and inquisitive in a way that isn't invasive or irritating. "I'll believe it when I try it, kid. So, how does Granny know about me?"

"Easy. Dad talks about you all the time." Emma blinks because _what does that even mean_ when he turns back across the counter. "Speaking of – Dad, if I was putting a body in the freezer, it would be because I was trying to hide it."

The words arrow straight into her brain and all the alarm bells go off. "Whoa, _whoa_. Jones, you cannot discuss open cases!" It's bad enough that he's a civilian consultant, but talking about cases with his teenage _son? _She's going to kill him.

Jones darts behind Granny, who just snorts and stands aside. He raises his hands. "I think best aloud, Swan! And I'm never specific!" He quickly diverts his attention to Liam, pointedly ignoring the death glare that she's throwing his way. "Trying to hide it – until you stop paying for the storage space."

Liam hums under his breath, his brow furrowing. "Did I stop, or did something stop me?"

Jones' eyes widen at that insight, and even Emma takes notice. Finally, he laughs. "It's family moments like these I will never forget."

Granny slaps the back of his head with a dishrag. "With a good therapist, hopefully Liam will. Now come on and assemble this lasagna!" She motion towards Emma and Liam. "And you two – less murder and more chopping, help me with the salad."

* * *

"So." Mary Margaret hands Emma a mug and curls up on the couch beside her. She's kicked David out for the night, citing the need for a much-needed 'Girl's Night.' "Tell me more about Killian Jones."

Emma takes a moment to appreciatively sniff the hot chocolate, lightly scented with cinnamon. The M.E. (and David's fiancée) is perhaps her first true female friend, and the only other person she knows who enjoys the hot beverage this particular way. "I'm sure David's told you plenty."

"Sure," she agrees. "But I want to know what _you_ think."

"He's annoying, self-centered, egotistical…what else do you want to know?"

Mary Margaret just grins at her from over the top of her mug.

"What?"

She wiggles her eyebrows. "He's not a bad man, though." And Emma knows that. She has, after all, met Liam and the kid's turned out all right. "And he could be…fun. You could use a little more fun in your life."

"Not in the form of an overgrown third-grader," she mutters.

"All I'm saying is that you should be a little bit more open-minded. He could be good for you, even if it's just in the professional sense. How many cases have you closed since he started shadowing you?"

"A few," she admits reluctantly. "Don't say a thing," she warns. Mary Margaret is an idealist. She wants everyone to have what she has with David – _especially _Emma. She knows that she means well, but it can be exasperating. Especially after one too many blind dates.

The petite brunette raises a single hand in surrender. "Zipping it now. Anyway, want to hear about the latest Perlmutter disaster?"

"Oh god, lay it on me!"

"So, we have this new intern…"

* * *

She's going to stab him through the eye.

"All right, so you and I are married."

Emma crosses her arms and gives him the death glare. "We are _not _married." She can almost – just barely – tolerate the crazy theories, because, well, so far they've provided an alternative viewpoint that gives them an edge in solving crimes. She would never admit it, but Jones has good instincts.

Like their last case – she wasn't sure what prompted her to let him into the interrogation room with her, but it was his line of questioning, his way of sympathizing with the suspect that drew out the confession. So yes, his way with words comes in handy.

But she draws the line at roleplaying.

"Relax, love, it's just pretend."

"_Don't _call me love. And I don't want to pretend."

"Well, if that's what you-"

"Don't finish that sentence."

The landlord looks between the two of them with interest. "Are you two like this all the time?"

"Yes," they say at the same time. Emma's scowl deepens and Jones beams, rocking back on his heels.

* * *

Emma wears her mementos on her body – as tributes and as reminders. She doesn't talk about them to anyone (not even David and Mary Margaret know the full story behind any one of them), so it's a surprise that she winds up telling Jones. Not everything, but just enough.

"I was found abandoned on the side of the road. They couldn't even bring me to a hospital or a church or a shelter. My first foster family kept me until I was three, but then they had a kid of their own so I was put back in the system. From then on it was just one house to the next until I finally got out." She's deathly calm and it's like she's reciting a report, but that's the only way she can tell it and keep it together. That is, until- "Swan was the first foster family's name. They wouldn't keep me, but I kept their name."

The emotion is still bitter on her tongue and harsh in the corners of her eyes, not that she ever lets any tears fall.

"The swan's a reminder of what you lost," Jones murmurs, staring at the silver swan around her neck. There's no pity or sympathy in his eyes, only a deep sort of understanding that's oddly comforting.

_In more ways than one_, Emma thinks remembering when the pendant had been a part of a keychain, and warm brown eyes as it was handed to her-

But that's a wound that cuts too deep, so she shoves it down, down, down, to that locked away place inside of her, the part of her that is still seventeen and bright and hopeful.

"And the shoelace?"

That hurt is still fresh in her mind. "Graham was my first partner," she says, running a thumb over the brown suede tied around her wrist. "I was fresh out of the Academy and stupidly overconfident."

"I find that hard to imagine."

She shrugs and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Well, I was. Graham…calmed me down."

"How did he die?"

"We were investigating a bodega robbery. The kid who did it hid in the broom closet in the back and when Graham opened the door…" Emma lets out a watery laugh, remembering her screams of _10-00, requesting backup, repeat, 10-00_. "He told me…before…that I'd _saved _him. What kind of idiot says that when he's bleeding out in front of you?" She knew that he'd had some sort of past, something that he'd eventually let go of during the brief months that they'd been partners, but he'd never told her the specifics.

"One who meant it, I imagine," he says softly.

_One for the one I lost…and one for the one I saved. _Perhaps she could look at it that way.

Silence follows them as they ride the elevator down and cross the lobby. She pauses at the front doors and turns to him, wondering why she trusted him enough to tell him these things.

"Until tomorrow, Swan."

She shakes her head. "You can't just say 'night?'"

"I'm a writer. 'Night' is boring. 'Until tomorrow' is more…hopeful."

His honesty and utter lack of pretense knocks her off balance, so Emma falls back on what she knows: distance. "Yeah. Well, I'm a cop. Night." And she pushes through the doors, leaving him behind.

* * *

Jones is sitting with David and Leroy in front of the board while Emma pins up the crime scene photographs.

"Why do you writers always call suspects 'perps?'" David's asking.

Jones raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that what _you _call them?"

"We've got a whole lot of names for them. Pipehead, pisshead, orc, creep-"

"-crook, knucklehead, chucklehead," Leroy chimes in.

"-chud, turd-"

"-destro, scall-"

"-slicko, slick-"

"-mope-"

Jones' notepad appears out of thin air and he's scrambling to keep up as they throw slang his way. "Hang on there mates, slow down a tick!" he exclaims.

"Suspects," Emma says. Her head's starting to throb. "We call them _suspects._"

Captain Tracy walks by. "I'm old school," she comments. "I like 'dirtbag.'"

"Classic!" Jones cries. Emma resists the urge to slam her head against the board.

* * *

The case is truly starting to get to her. It all snowballs when the suspect alibis out and there's nothing they can do about it. She knows that she's got to get out of there or people (most likely Jones) are going to _get _it (and for once it wouldn't even be his fault).

So she goes to blow off some steam in the shooting range. She needs the sharp juxtaposition of loud and quiet, the cool weight of metal in her hand, and above all, the semblance of control.

But of course Jones can't leave well enough alone. He all but bounces in and her irritation keeps notching upwards until she's just itching to use him for target practice (of course, it's not until later that she realizes he did it all on purpose, making her focus on him rather than the situation at hand).

Then he implies she's not doing it right – or something – and she's handing the gun off to him. "All right Jones, you show me how it's done."

He sends that _stupid _grin of his in her direction. "I love a challenge."

She gestures at the target, wondering how long it will be before he puts a hole in the ceiling. "All yours."

Jones' stance is ridiculous, standing profile with the gun in one hand, his right shoulder up and eyes squinting. "It's not a duel, Scaramouche." She's reaching out to turn him before she remembers that she really doesn't touch people, but oh well. If he's going to shoot then he might as well do it right. "Square off the target. Feet shoulder distance apart and gauntlet your right fist in your left palm."

She gets a whiff of him as she arranges his stance to her liking, and it's something like wood, salt, and warm leather, rich and cozy and comforting. They've never been this close before and she's suddenly aware of how here, his larger-than-life persona is toned down. And when he's like _that_…well, he's an entirely different animal.

Oh god. She's not actually _attracted _to him, is she?

Evidently Jones is just as distracted, because he squeezes the trigger and fires into the wall. "Oops. Shot too soon."

The moment is light and funny and just what she needed so Emma can't help but respond. "Yeah, well, you know we could always just cuddle, Jones."

Jones angles his head towards her and is clearly taken by the sight of her amusement. "Oh, _funny_, Swan, and a smile! Good!" He winks and tries another shot, missing the target by a mile. At least it's not the ceiling.

"Well, that's…better."

He shifts a little bit and regards the target. "I actually came down to ask you if I could take some of those stolen property photos."

"Photos of the evidence? Why?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I could talk it over with Liam. Something might spark, you know?" He squares his stance and fires again, shooting the target, but right in the groin. He winces. "That hurt."

She's going to let him take them anyway, seeing as they're at a dead end, but maybe he'll do better with some incentive. "Tell you what. You put any of the next three in the ten ring and I will give you the files."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jones straightens and before Emma can say something he fires three shots straight in the ten ring. Emma's jaw drops and she turns to him, eyes narrowing.

He beams, unapologetic. "You're a _very _good teacher."

* * *

The book dedication to _Snow Falls _is this:

_To the extraordinary ES and all my friends at the 12__th__ Precinct._

Her gaze lingers on the word "extraordinary" for far too long and it stirs something in her stomach. No one's ever called her that before and as she looks up into his eyes, she knows that he means it with every cell in his body.

* * *

"Henry!" Jones exclaims. Emma looks up to find a boy around ten years old standing beside her desk. He has dark brown hair and is wearing a wool coat and a striped scarf. He's staring at her with eyes that are unnervingly familiar. "What brings you here, lad?"

"Hi Killian," the boy says, then focuses his attention back on Emma. "Are you Detective Emma Swan?" he asks.

"That's me," she says warily, wondering how Jones knows him. A friend of Liam's perhaps? "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Henry Mills." He takes a deep breath. "I'm your son."

* * *

**Please review!**

This is part of my Captain Swan Secret Santa gift for Solène (a.k.a. robbkays) over on tumblr. She requested graphics, but seeing as they're not my strong suit I decided to add to her gift. :)

I really like AUs (nah, really). They're so much fun to play with. And yes, there is a LOT drawn from Castle here. But when the source material is so brilliant...

If you're curious about Liam Jones, Jr., more explanations are forthcoming, but one of the things I love most about Castle is the dynamic between Alexis and Castle. I wanted Killian to have something like that here. As for why the kid's Liam Jr. and not Bae...well, that treads perilously close to headache territory.


	2. I feel I'm falling deeper every day

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas rattling in my head!

* * *

"_My name is Henry Mills." He takes a deep breath. "I'm your son."_

The world as she knows it comes crashing down on her head. For a moment, Emma can hardly _see _straight and her breath is stuck in her lungs and there's a roaring in her ears…

The sound of Jones choking on his coffee is enough to bring her back to the present. "I don't have a kid," she utters harshly, feeling the lie in every bone of her body. No, no, this can't be happening right now…

But the kid won't give up (and some crazy corner of her brain wonders where he gets it from, exactly?). "Did you give a kid up for adoption ten years ago?" he persists, brown eyes beseeching. "That was me."

Emma feels light-headed, because she can see shadows of herself in his chin and the tilt of his mouth. The age is right, the look is right, but this, this cannot be right. She gave him up for a reason.

"Henry, are you sure?" Jones asks incredulously. "Swan? You had a son?"

There's a brief commotion on one end of the bullpen and in walks Mayor Regina Mills, her expensive heels clicking on the floor. "Henry Daniel Mills!" she says in a voice that's too soft to be a shout, yet too loud to be at normal speaking volume. "What on earth are you doing?"

Henry spins around, a guilty expression creeping over his face. "Sorry, Mom, but I wanted to see her!"

Her son is also the son of the mayor of New York City. Oh god.

"I'm sorry about this, Detective Swan," Mayor Mills says later. She's standing by the interrogation table, her arms crossed tight over her chest. The blinds are closed, shutting them away from curious eyes and she just knows that Captain Tracy is guarding the observation room so that there aren't any curious ears, either. Henry is in the bullpen with Jones, David, and Leroy, allowing his "moms" some space. "Henry has always known that he was adopted and I promised him that for his tenth birthday we could get your information. From there we would see if you wanted to set up some form of communication. I never _imagined _that he would do this, though."

The mayor presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose and sighs. Emma has to admit that she's a little awed. Regina Mills is a formidable woman and the city's first female mayor. She's tough but fair and her hard stance against crime and corruption has been good for the city. She was married young and widowed not long after, and has a reputation as a loving single mother.

"Right." The words feel like sand in her mouth but she gets them out anyway. "I admit that I'm surprised you allowed him to do this. I know I have a record."

"It was a consideration," Regina agrees and Emma winces. "But your service for the city speaks for itself, Detective Swan." She smiles wryly. "I love Henry. I would do anything for him – including share him, which is something I'm not particularly good at. But I won't allow him to force himself on you if that's not what you want."

Emma exhales shakily. There's been a lot to process over the last few minutes. "I-I'm really sorry. This is so _sudden_ and-"

"Of course," Regina says quickly, looking faintly horrified. "I apologize, Detective Swan. This must be overwhelming. I don't know if you even wanted to see him-"

"Henry seems like a great kid," Emma starts, then stops. Great, now she's made the _mayor _uncomfortable. She casts about for something, _anything_ to say and wishes briefly that she had Jones' gift for words. "I just wanted him to have his best chance and it seems like he has it with you."

The other woman seems genuinely touched by that. "He's the best thing in my life," she admits, her eyes softening and her wariness fading away.

Emma checks her watch. "Listen, I'm off in five minutes." She pauses. "Why don't you, Henry, and I get some hot chocolate or coffee or something? There's a nice place around the corner…?"

Evidently it's the right thing to say, because Regina relaxes further. "I think Henry would really like that."

Emma's not sure why she's doing this, but something in her gut tells her that it's the right thing to do. She certainly cannot help the unexpected warmth that spreads throughout her body at Henry's genuine excitement when she and Regina step out of the room and tell him they're all going out together.

Henry's obviously a smart, happy kid with a mother that loves him. It shows that for once, she's done something right.

Maybe she can do this right, too.

* * *

Henry takes to coming by the precinct about once a week after that. Sometimes, because he goes to the same school as Liam (turns out Emma was right about that), the two boys turn up together. David's always delighted to see them and so is Leroy, even if he hides it better. When the two boys are there and Emma happens to be free, Jones inevitably wheedles them into getting hot beverages at the corner shop.

It's a startling coincidence, but Henry likes cinnamon on his hot cocoa too. His imagination is right on par with Killian's and their increasingly outlandish theories regarding the case of the moment are enough to make Emma's head throb.

Henry's passionate about fairytales and has a particular talent for breaking them down and reimagining them. He's convinced, for example, that there was more to the Evil Queen in Snow White ("Being the fairest is the worst motivation ever. What if Snow White actually _did_ something to her?") and that Snow White herself is not the weak and shivering damsel Emma's always imagined her to be. Not that she'd ever tell Mary Margaret, seeing as Snow White's her favorite Disney princess.

"He has quite the imagination, your boy," Jones remarks as Henry and Liam go back to the counter to order another round of hot chocolates.

"Yeah, well I can't take credit for that. He definitely didn't get it from me."

"Did he get it from his father?"

Emma stiffens and wonders why she didn't see that coming. Probably because she pushes all thoughts of _him _out of her head and expects everyone else to do the same. It's irrational and she's made a career out of being rational, but she's allowed – no, she _deserves_ this. Henry hasn't asked about his birth father yet and she dreads the day he will. "That's none of your business."

His fingers stop their dance on the table. "You're right, Swan. I'm sorry. I'll not ask again. Not until you're willing to tell me."

Which will probably be the other side of _never_. Emma still has no idea how he's wormed himself into her life but there are limits. Still, she doesn't even need her superpower to know that he's telling her the truth and he really won't push.

However, he's given her the perfect opening to a question that she's been pondering for quite some time now. "What about Liam?"

She's never realized how open he is with her until he suddenly _isn't_. A wall comes down behind those ocean-blue eyes, cutting her off from a part of him that she didn't even know that she wanted to see. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"Tit for tat, Jones," she presses when he doesn't deign to reply. "Maybe someday we'll both be willing to talk about it. Until then…" she trails off, unsure of where to go from there.

"Until then." Jones' gaze shifts back to her then, as unreadable as a pane of glass. Emma wonders how much she really knows about Killian Jones, truly, beyond what he's shown her. The thought is both intriguing and unsettling because she's known him for a year now and if she's only been seeing the surface…well, then she's a little ashamed of herself. She's a detective, isn't she? Seeing past the surface is her job.

"Four hot chocolates with cinnamon," Liam announces as he and Henry come back to the table. The tense atmosphere dissipates like the morning fog in the sun. He shrugs at Jones. "I thought we could see what all the fuss was about, but tea's still better."

"We'll convert them in no time," Henry confides to Emma, his face twisting comically at the mention of tea. She fights back her thoughts and lifts the mug to her lips, indulging the little bit of comfort it brings.

* * *

"I don't get it. Who would steal a dead body?" David muses. The four of them are assembled in front of the board. Call Emma old-fashioned, but she likes it. She's always been a visual learner and this way all the facts are arrayed in front of them, just begging for them to draw the connections. Ever since Jones has joined the team, his stories have made it easier to make those connections.

Even when they're utterly and completely absurd. Like now.

"Plenty of people." Jones sidles in front of the board to face the three detectives and ticks off the possibilities on his fingers. "Organ harvesters, medical students in need of cadavers, Satanists." He pauses, says in a stage whisper, "Mad scientists looking to create their own monster. I swear that a mate of mine in London was like that. He had the Frankenstein air to him."

"Or," Emma interrupts, rolling her eyes. "The guys who killed him might have left some evidence behind."

Jones looks pained, as though her lack of imagination is something to truly mourn. "Swan, that's so _boring_. Help a man out here – what if he was a spy that swallowed a microchip? Then he's murdered by other spies before the CIA can get a hold of him?"

"No. Just…no." Those kinds of theories never lead them anywhere, but Emma tolerates them because it's fun yanking on Jones' chain.

* * *

"So Swan, I've been meaning to ask you something."

Emma rifles with the stack of papers in front of her and tries not to resent him too badly. A real partner would help her with the paperwork, but Jones is a civilian consultant and there are all kinds of rules and regulations that prevent him from actually being helpful. She knows that it's petty of her, but there's a stress headache brewing behind her eyes and there's no time to be charitable. "No."

"You really haven't read _Snow Falls _yet?"

She freezes slightly at his wounded tone. She's been trying to avoid this moment. Ever since they started working together she's downplayed how much a fan of his work she truly is because the man really does not need an ego boost.

But she honestly doesn't think she can lie to him about this. She's already read her advance copy twice. The book is brilliant. It's everything she's come to expect from a Killian Jones novel. The plot is clever and twisting and despite her abilities the ending was a complete shocker. Jones has a way of crafting stories that just reach out and grab the reader by the throat. She's laughed, she's cried, and yes, she's fanned herself a few times because the man can write a love scene (but she's not going to dwell on that, oh no).

It's the way that he wrote Gwen Snow, though, that just…baffles Emma. Gwen Snow is sexy, tough, and brilliant – that was only to be expected. Jones' main characters follow a specific type. Gwen Snow is more than that, though: she's also deliciously complex, fiercely independent, and sure of what's right and wrong. Emma sees determination and passion and the faintest hint of vulnerability in her and it's easy to see why the character Jameson Rook is instantly hooked.

Is that what Jones sees when he looks at her? She knows that he thinks she's extraordinary (she's flipped back to the dedication page, drinking in that specific combination of letters over and over again, e-x-t-r-a-o-r-d-i-n-a-r-y), but it's one thing to read the word and another to have the character come to life on the page and know that she's somehow at the root of it. It's almost too much to believe.

Emma has never seen herself that way. She's the orphan, the lost girl, the one always left behind. She's the thief, the scrappy fighter, the overconfident rookie. It's only now that as the detective she's found a calling and a purpose. Somewhere where she can finally be useful and make a difference. She's never seen it as more than that.

But Gwen Snow is like…Wonder Woman. And Emma can't reconcile the line between those two women and the lost girl. She tells herself that it's embellishment and spectacular characterization but somehow she can't make herself believe it.

She blinks and realizes that Jones has been raving this entire time. "…you kept going on about getting a copy of that book. Do you have any idea how many hoops I had to jump through just so that your copy didn't come with an armed escort? The least you could do is…" he trails off and those blue eyes narrow at her. "Oh, I see what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything," she says quickly, turning back to the paperwork.

He leans forward, jabbing an accusing finger in her direction. "Oh yes, you are Swan." Stunningly enough, he gets her wrong. "You're trying to push my buttons, but you're in for a disappointment."

"Am I?" Emma glances back at him, fighting her relief and yes, her disappointment, though not for the reason he thinks. For someone who claims she's an open book, he's not exactly doing a great job of it right now.

But perhaps that's for the best. She's almost afraid of his answer, because then what would she do?

"Indeed, Swan."

She smirks. "Cause it seems to be working just fine."

"_Swan_," he whines but is interrupted by David walking in, waving his phone.

"We've got a case!"

* * *

"I can't believe how naïve she's being about this," Emma complains as she and Jones exit the brownstone belonging to the victim's fiancée. "Despite the overwhelming evidence that her fiancé was a conman she still believes he loved her." The words leave a bad taste in her mouth, the same way much of the case does. She really doesn't like their victim – in fact, she's quite happy to believe he deserves what he got. But his killer is out there and it's her job to catch him. Or her.

Jones matches her stride for stride on the sidewalk. "People see what they want to see," he reasons. "It's what con artists prey on."

"It's psychopathy, really. To be so cold that you can look someone in the eye, tell them you love them, then rob them blind without remorse…"

Emma become conscious of the fact that Jones has stopped and is regarding her far too closely. "That's quite the response there, Swan," he says carefully and damn it, what did she give away? "Care to share with the class?"

Thankfully, her phone rings and she's saved from having to respond.

Later that night, Captain Tracy comes by to monitor their progress on the case. "What do you have?" she inquires as Emma and the boys sit down with boxes of pizza and their victim's files.

"We're still not sure which con killed Steven Fletcher, but he was definitely a criminal overachiever," Emma says wryly.

David laughs as he shuffles through some papers. "Hey, you know those Nigerian e-mail scams?"

"Don't tell me he pulled one of those," Leroy mumbles around a mouthful of pepperoni.

"Nah, someone tried to pull one on him, so Fletcher conned the guy out of ten grand." He shakes his head, impressed despite himself.

Leroy whistles. "Our man was good."

"Damn good," Jones agrees, sharing a grin with Captain Tracy.

Sometimes Emma can't believe her partners. "Don't be so impressed," she snaps, opening her box of supreme. "The guy was a criminal."

"Come now, Swan." Jones leans forward, warming to his topic. "There's something about a well-played con that makes you want to tip your hat to the man."

"I do love a good con movie," Captain Tracy confesses. "_House of Games_, _Catch Me If You Can_-"

"_Ocean's Eleven_," Leroy chimes in.

David reaches over and snags a slice of Emma's pizza. "_Dirty Rotten Scoundrels._ Come on Emma, you have to have a favorite."

"I hate con movies," she says flatly. Cries of dismay rise from the three men sitting with her and Captain Tracy just smiles patiently, waiting for her to explain. Emma sighs. "Because the only people that get conned in a con movie are the people watching it. You can't invest in the movie because nothing's real, all right?" Again, something of the bitter truth seeps through her words because Jones throws her another one of those looks.

"That's what makes it fun," is his soft remark.

Emma gestures at the files piled in front of them. "Well it wasn't fun to Fletcher's victims, now was it?"

That shuts them all up real quick.

* * *

This case. This _ridiculous _case. It should have been open and shut. Find the conman's most convincing victim, bam. But then there's the whole spy thing and the whole the-conman-might-be-alive business and oh god her brain is going to explode. She might as well grab one of Mary Margaret's Stryker saws to relieve the pressure, and yes, she's well aware of how morbid that is.

"Mary Margaret, what are you trying to say?"

The M.E. looks apologetic. "Honestly, Emma, I can't verify anything." She glances down at the body on the slab. "This man may or may not be the con artist you know as Steven Fletcher."

"I _hate _this case!" Emma hisses.

Jones is almost jumping for joy at her side. "I know! It's great, innit?"

Sometimes, he just gets so very _Irish_.

* * *

But then, finally, everything starts falling into place.

Emma stares at the engagement scrapbooks. Everything about them, from the white glossy paper to the Photoshop, looks startlingly familiar. "These look exactly like the brochures Fletcher made for his fake polar expedition," she murmurs, and it's like she's finally seen the light. "You said Sue made them, Mrs. Finnegan?"

"Yes," the victim's almost mother-in-law confirms, looking at them over Emma's shoulder.

Jones is rifling through them too, and he's caught her train of thought. "How long has Sue been working for Elise?"

"I don't know, a year maybe?"

Emma faces Jones, absolutely certain. "Sue is Fletcher's partner."

Jones straightens. "It's the undercover lover scam." He turns slightly to Mrs. Finnegan, eyes alight as he explains. "Sue is the scout. It's her job to learn everything there is to know about Elise so that Steven is ready. Because of Sue's information-"

"Steven has the playbook of all of Elise's hopes and dreams," Emma continues, walking as she talks it out. "And voila, it's love at first sight!"

"But something doesn't make sense." Jones is right behind her, his brow furrowed in thought. "Why would they fake Fletcher's death in such a public manner? They had to have known that the police would get involved and expose the con to dangerous scrutiny."

"Unless Fletcher really is dead and Mr. Finnegan was right. Fletcher _was _really in love with Elise-

"-And was going to give up his conman ways-"

"-Meaning that Sue was going to lose everything either way."

"So Sue eliminates Fletcher, shooting him in the face to avoid positive ID."

"Yes!"

"But what about the voicemail?" A lost voice cuts in. Mrs. Finnegan looks hopelessly confused. Emma looks back at Jones, notices they're standing far too close, and backs up.

Jones rubs his chin. "Sue must have faked it somehow."

"But why?"

"The con is still on!" Emma and Jones say together.

* * *

Liam says he's too old to Trick-Or-Treat for Halloween and Henry claims the same, but it doesn't stop the two boys from begging to play together at the loft. Luckily, Regina's busy with an event so she allows Emma to bring Henry over for a sleepover. The two boys immediately start a video game, gleefully shooting zombies and consuming enough candy to ensure a sugar high, if not a sore belly, in the morning.

For her part, Emma curls up on the couch (Jones has excellent taste in furniture, she has to admit) and declines to comment on their shooting technique. She winces as they whoop over a lucky headshot on Liam's part. "Liam, where's your father?"

"Putting the final touches on his costume," the teenager says absently. "He always dresses up for Halloween."

"Why am I not surprised?"

It's almost as if he was waiting for just the right time to appear and if she knows Jones, he was. The door to his bedroom flies open and Emma side-eyes him so hard that he stops dead in his tracks, his grand proclamation dying on his lips.

"What? Don't you like it?"

"You're _Captain Hook?" _She takes in the leather pants, billowy black shirt, black leather vest, and shiny hook prosthetic. And guyliner. Can't forget that. "Where's the perm and waxed mustache?"

Jones actually pouts (and it's not adorable Emma, it really isn't). "I'm _sexy _Captain Hook, love. Perms and waxed mustaches would take away from the look. Besides, Barrie described Hook as-"

"Whoa, you look great, Killian! You're exactly how I pictured him!" Henry exclaims, peeling his eyes away from the video game for a few precious seconds.

"Thank you lad." Jones bows, his arms extended out to the side. "At least _someone _appreciates my efforts." He scowls at Emma and grabs the candy bowl as the doorbell rings. His entire demeanor changes when he faces the trick-or-treaters. "Oh-ho, look at these scallywags! Now don't take too much candy or I'll make you walk the plank!" He starts doling out the candy, asking each child about his or her outfit and answering their excited questions – in character, of course.

On the television, both Liam and Henry's characters die in a shower of blood and guts, much to their delight. Henry runs off to the bathroom while Liam tips his head back to smile at Emma. "Dad's worn a lot of costumes over the years, but the Captain Hook one is his favorite. Mum-" A shadow passes over his face. "Mum always joked that he was a dashing pirate, sweeping the maiden off for adventures in different lands."

It's the first time Liam's ever mentioned Milah Jones to her. "You miss her, don't you?" she murmurs. She can't help it – she reaches out and runs her fingers through his curls.

"All the time," he admits. "Dad doesn't like talking about her. It makes him too sad."

Emma glances over at the framed photograph sitting next to her. "I kind of understand."

"Okay!" Henry exclaims as he dashes back in, nearly wiping out on the hardwood floors. "Round two!"

Liam gives Emma a grateful, embarrassed smile and starts the whole thing over again just as Jones plops down beside her. "Come now, Swan, you have to admit that I'm quite dashing." He offers her the bowl with a cheeky grin.

Emma selects a mini peanut butter cup and shrugs. "The guyliner's not too bad, even if you did rip off Jack Sparrow."

"That's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow to you, wench." Jones sulks.

Later that night, she watches as he cajoles both boys into brushing their teeth and into the blanket fort the two insisted on constructing. From the giggles that drift down the stairs, Emma knows they're not asleep yet but hey, that's what sleepovers are for. Regina won't be picking Henry up until noon next day – she cites a desperate need to sleep in. Emma knows the feeling.

"What?" Jones asks, catching her eye as he jogs down the loft stairs.

"Nothing." She hands him the DVD (_Nosferatu_), then relents. "It's just I'm so used to seeing you act like a twelve-year-old all the time. It's refreshing to see you as the father."

Jones starts up the DVD and tosses a wink at her over his shoulder. "It makes you want me, right Swan?"

Emma groans. "…and there goes the twelve-year-old again."

He does makes for a pretty sexy Captain Hook though. Not that she'll ever admit it.

* * *

"Are you two together?" A witness asks the two of them.

"Absolutely not," Emma exclaims.

"Not yet," Jones sighs at the same time.

* * *

Speculation flies wildly around the precinct when they take on the Conway wedding case. Everyone saw how Jones and the bride reacted to each other – but neither one of them is talking.

"Aren't you guys supposed to be running background checks?" Emma asks David and Leroy.

"We are," David protests.

"On the bride." Leroy flips open the cover to _A Rose For Everafter_. Emma recognizes it, of course – it's the second novel Jones published, before he even started the Derrick Storm series. "The dedication says, 'For the one who makes the stars shine' – think it's her?" The two men turn and stare at her expectantly.

"Seriously," Emma mutters after a long pause. "When I'm not here, do you guys braid each other's hair and debate over the cutest member of One Direction?"

"Nope." David's expression is absolutely deadpan. "But it's definitely Harry."

"No, it's Zayn," Leroy exclaims.

She's not even safe from Mary Margaret. The moment she finishes with all the pertinent details, she raises an eyebrow. "So, David tells me that Killian has a history with the bride."

Oh hell. "So it would seem," Emma says reluctantly, knowing that she's not going to escape easily. For some strange reason, she's become Jones' biggest cheerleader and has not been subtle in her attempts to get Emma to do…something.

"Ancient, modern, or sexual?"

"Who knows?"

Mary Margaret disposes of her gloves and moves around the slab to Emma's side. "Are you okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" She ignores the skeptical glance that's thrown her way. "Just keep me posted on the lab results, all right?"

"Come on, Emma. You can't tell me that you're not the least bit curious. You work side by side with the man every day. He wrote a sex scene between the two of you-"

"Between the _characters_, Mary Margaret!"

"-that had _me _reaching for ice water it was so hot. And now this beautiful, mysterious woman shows up."

She really, really can't take much more of this. "You've been inhaling too many autopsy fluids." She pivots on her heel and marches out the doors.

"Just because you can't see what's going on doesn't mean everyone else can't see what's going on!" she shouts after her.

"I can't hear you!"

* * *

But the truth, as it turns out, is nothing that anyone could have predicted.

"Siobhan is Liam's biological mother?"

Jones rubs the back of his neck and strides towards the edge of the roof. New York spreads itself below them, its concrete towers and streets bright and busy and humming with life. After a short while Emma joins him, leaning against the railing and looking out over the city to at least give him some semblance of privacy. She knows what it's like to reveal secrets.

"You know by now that Liam's not my biological son, either."

"You told me that the day I met him. But he's still related to you by blood, the physical similarities between the two of you are too strong." They have the same smile, the same eyes.

She sees him nod out of the corner of her eye. "Liam Jones, Jr. for Liam Jones, Sr. My brother's son."

The confession, though expected, still takes her by surprise. Jones had a brother. Jones had a wife. Jones has a son, who's really his nephew. What else doesn't she know about him?

"Liam was a police officer back in Dublin. You'll find this hilarious, Swan, but I was actually in the Academy at the time, with one novel in press already."

Now that is something she just cannot picture, though she tries. Killian Jones, young and earnest…in a cadet's uniform. "What…what happened to him?"

"He died," Jones says shortly, his burr thickening with the onset of emotion. "No one would admit it, but Liam's partner and some of the others he ran with were corrupt." His knuckles whiten on the railing and the expression on his face is fierce and haunted. "There was no one more honorable than Liam, you have my word on that. They were bad and he was good, and he paid the price for it. After that, I couldn't stay. I-" His breath hitches and he shudders.

"You couldn't become part of a corrupt system that killed your brother." Now that she _can _see, because there's nothing wrong with Jones' sense of justice. And though he doesn't say it, she just knows that Liam's death killed something in him, too.

He grunts. "Aye. Siobhan showed up a few months after with a babe yet in swaddling cloth. She and Liam and gone their separate ways shortly before he died. She told me she hadn't the heart to get rid of the child but she couldn't love him, either."

"But _you_ could," Emma breathes. "_A Rose For Everafter_ – the dedication is for Liam." She always wondered why Liam had no explicit dedication, but then again, she knew how protective Jones was of his son. She could piece the rest of it together – Jones took Liam and Milah and moved to London, where they'd started over. That's when he started on the Derrick Storm novels. Then after Milah's death, they came to New York for another fresh start.

"I fell head over heels in love with him," Jones admits, chuckling softly. "It was like having my brother back. It still is. Liam's exactly like his father."

"He's like both of his fathers, and that's not a bad thing at all," Emma says softly. But something still doesn't make sense. Jones had been tense the moment he laid eyes on Siobhan, and if it wasn't because of a shared romantic history… "Did you think Siobhan was going to try and take him back?"

"It occurred to me, but she put all thoughts like that to rest." He frowned. "She didn't even want to meet him. She just wanted her wedding and her new life."

"Her loss, then." Something in him just loosens at her words and it's like the specters that haunted him all week have simply vanished.

"That it is. Thank you, Swan. I've carried this around with me for far too long."

Emma shrugs and tries desperately to keep her voice nonchalant. "That's what partners are for, right?" She finally feels like she's gotten the true measure of Killian Jones and she can't help it – she likes what she sees.

It's the first time she's ever acknowledged their strange relationship. Jones' eyes sparkle in the darkness and it's more than just the reflection of city lights. "Aye, Swan. Partners."

* * *

He brings her hot chocolate with cinnamon the next morning, and every morning thereafter.

* * *

**Please review!**

And now, I present teasing!Emma (because S1 was skeptical!Beckett, S2 was teasing!Beckett, S3 was flirty!Beckett, S4 was love-eyeballs!Beckett, and so on and so forth). I thought about writing a chapter per season, but I'd forgotten that Season One was so short. I project about two chapters per season, though it depends on how snippet-ish I decide I'm going to be. I thought it would be nice to have more of an entire episode's plot here, and since _Fool Me Once _was what came up when I was writing it...well...

It's so much fun blending my two favorite shows. I never realized just how many parallels there were between CS and Caskett until I started going through the previous seasons!

Also, thanks to Insiya for beta reading. :D


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